Blind, Deaf, and Running Away
by crazy4vicodin
Summary: It takes something big for House to start caring, but is Wilson hiding something even bigger? [SLASH HouseWilson][Angst,HurtComfort, Romance]
1. Chapter 1

Title: Blind, Deaf, and Running Away  
Fandom: House, M.D.  
Pairing: Eventual House/Wilson  
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Warnings: Homosexual themes (eventually), cursing, serious issues discussed  
Disclaimer: _House, M.D. and it's characters do not belong to me._

A/N: This is going to be a _long_ story. I wanted to write a fic about how House and Wilson would realistically realize that they have feelings for each other, and how they would tackle the idea of a relationship. As much as I love the "Hey, I like you! I like you too! Let's get together! POOF!" fics, I wanted to go for a more logical approach. I guessed that it would happen over time and need a catalyst. I tried to keep them in character throughout the whole story, but there will be some pretty serious themes to this story. Won't go into them here, but get ready to stress out in later chapters!

Chapter One

Wilson sighed and knocked his beer bottle against House's, slumping into the couch cushions. "Here's to the end of another marriage." He fished through a container of lo mein with his chopsticks and extracted a piece of broccoli desolately.

House raised an eyebrow. Taking a swig of beer, he surveyed Wilson intently before speaking. "Julie filed," he guessed.

"Yeah. I got the papers last week. Should have seen it coming, considering how long I'd been sleeping in the guest bedroom before it happened." Wilson shrugged. He looked bone-weary.

For a few seconds there was silence broken only by the sound of Chinese food cartons being shuffled as they ate. "Why didn't you tell me?" House said eventually through a mouthful of noodles.

"It doesn't matter. I didn't want to talk about it." Wilson rubbed his eyes. "I still don't."

"Jimmy—"

Wilson held up a hand. "Drop it, House. Seriously, drop it," he repeated. "It's late. I should go." He stood up. The chopsticks clattered onto the coffee table.

House heaved himself to his feet; he nodded in thanks when Wilson passed over his cane. They stared at the floor quietly for what felt like ages but was only several minutes. Wilson's body language told House he was tense. Hands in pockets, hunched over, avoiding eye contact. Classic signs of unwillingness to communicate.

Wilson moved first out of the two of them, leaning over to snag his jacket from the armchair. House followed him to the door and watched him pull it open wordlessly.

"You could sleep here, you know," he offered finally, when Wilson had reached the bottom step of the staircase. Wilson turned to look up at him and smiled wryly.

"Maybe another time," he replied softly, holding House's gaze. "When I need it more. Things at home aren't as bad as they'll get yet. I'll call you when she starts negotiating with the lawyers and my bed moves out to the garage." He paused, swallowed. That nervous set returned to his shoulders and the smile slipped off his face. "Okay?"

House took in Wilson's rumpled clothing, the traces of dark circles under his eyes, the slightly disheveled hair. Worry tugged at the back of his mind, but House hid it with a faint answering smile.

"Okay," he conceded, waiting until Wilson had left before going back into his apartment. As House poured himself a glass of scotch and sat down in front of the television, he wondered what had seemed off about Wilson's behavior that night. Wilson had been far more quiet than usual, laughing less. He'd appeared more uncomfortable in House's presence than he ever had throughout all the years of their friendship. Downing the scotch and a Vicodin with one toss of his head, House credited these oddities to the divorce. He decided that this kind of apathy could be expected in Wilson's circumstances.

He would rather give up his entire stash of Vicodin than actually admit he was concerned. Concern, compassion—those weren't emotions House handled well, either when directed towards himself or when he actually experienced them. So he put this Wilson matter aside grudgingly and sank into a blurry, drug-induced haze.

There was a reason why House got along better with pills than with people. Pills asked no questions, demanded no explanations. They gave up the control to House without doubting his authority. House despised people—as a general rule—because they got in his way, and he respected very few individuals. He cared about even fewer, choosing instead to live in solitude.

Wilson was the one exception to that solitude, the one person House unwaveringly trusted and respected. Not that he'd ever tell Wilson that. At the moment not even Wilson won over the need to be free of the agony in his leg.

Vicodin was just easier to talk to, his mind lied.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Blind, Deaf, and Running Away

Fandom: House, MD

Pairing: House/Wilson eventually

Warnings: homosexuality, serious issues, cursing, etc.

Rating: NC-17, R

Disclaimer: _House, M.D. _is not owned by me.

A/N: Here's the second chapter. I forgot to mention that this story is going to be a bit AU. Some characters from Season 3 will appear earlier than they actually appear in the series. If that made no sense, just disregard this author's note until much later into the story.

Chapter Two

"Wonder what's been eating Dr. Wilson lately," Chase remarked two days later on Friday afternoon. He and the rest of House's team were seated at the conference room table, half-heartedly sorting the year's old patient files for the hospital archives. It was pointless busy work—originally House's responsibility of course—and they were all unenthusiastic about finishing. There was nothing better to do, though, as no cases that week had been interesting enough for House. House himself was somewhere else, as usual.

"This one goes after 'Ischabod, Katharine' under April. God, there are loads of these left," Cameron said in a bored tone, sliding a file sloppily in Foreman's direction. "About Wilson—yeah, I don't get it either. He's been oddly absent from these parts the past few weeks."

Foreman shrugged. He was supposed to be manning the file rack and would snap to attention when given a file to put away. The sorting was going nowhere, so mostly Foreman just flicked files back and forth to entertain himself with the slapping noise it made. "I dunno, usually he's always hanging around Diagnostics at least some of the time. Maybe he's just busy." He rifled through a stack of papers. "Chase, _maybe_ we could get this over with faster if you actually helped us instead of redoing Monday's crossword."

Reluctantly Chase put down the newspaper and took the pen from between his teeth. "Right, sorry," he muttered apologetically, starting to alphabetize the files that had accumulated in front of him. "I don't really think Wilson's okay. I saw him asleep in the nurse's station earlier when I cut through Oncology. Didn't want to mention it, but--"

"Then you should really keep your mouth shut, shouldn't you?"

They'd all been too absorbed in the conversation to hear House entering. Chase buried himself back in the crossword puzzle guiltily. Foreman got up to put away the file rack, slightly startled. Cameron folded her hands in her lap and looked for all the world like a chastised schoolgirl.

"We were just worried…" she faltered. "You know, about…"

House shook his head and made his way unsteadily toward the coffee maker. "Wilson is fine. He's a big boy and he doesn't need you fretting over him. It does things to his ego." He searched the counters for his red mug. "Who's had the nerve to use _my_ designated coffee cup?" House pointed at the mug, which was standing half full of lukewarm coffee in the sink.

"Not me," Foreman rushed to his own defense. House nodded knowingly at him.

"Quickest to defend!" He rinsed out the mug and set it back on the counter upside-down to dry. "It must be you."

Foreman reached across the table for his Neurology Today magazine, turning to a previously dog-eared article about breakthroughs in Alzheimer's treatment. "Just saying, it wasn't me. Probably wasn't Chase either, 'cause he's got his own coffee." Chase held up a steaming Styrofoam cup that clearly read Dunkin Donuts.

"I get mine from Starbucks," Cameron added. "It's only a block from the hospital." She yawned and crossed her legs.

House frowned and dumped out the coffee that was already on the burner. "If we don't do something soon this thing is going to realize its dream of becoming an aquarium. Chase—you're in charge of restocking the gourmet selection. Cameron! You can wash the coffeemaker." He saluted her dramatically and walked out, banging his cane vehemently against the doorframe in farewell. "I'm off to raid the cafeteria!"

"Why me?" Cameron huffed and dropped her head onto her arms. "One reason why I went into medicine was so I wouldn't have to fit the housewife stereotype."

"You obviously still do," Chase teased, receiving a punch in the arm. "Eight-letter word for a learning disorder?"

Foreman just laughed. "Dyslexia," he said, and wondered if the everyday hardships he and his colleagues endured were anything in comparison to those faced by their boss.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Blind, Deaf and Running Away  
Fandom: House, MD  
Pairing: House/Wilson  
Rating: NC-17, R for mature concepts in this chapter  
Warnings: Eventual homosexual themes, near-death experience (this chapter)  
Disclaimer: House, MD and its characters belong to David Shore and his lucky people.

Chapter Three

Everyone else had gone home early the next day, but House was still finishing his clinic hours. He was so behind on completing them that Cuddy had threatened to confiscate his workplace liquor stash if he didn't do his job. To House, seven hours of clinic duty a day for two weeks was worth it if he got to keep his alcohol in return—that is, if they didn't get any cases. He hadn't even known Cuddy was aware that he stored scotch bottles in his desk drawer. A man always needed his scotch, no matter where the place.

House was sick and tired of sick and sniffling children and their needlessly frantic mothers by the time he finally signed out for the day. There were only a given number of male gonorrhea cases he could bear seeing before losing his appetite, but today had given House one too many. His leg had been complaining persistently, completely unaffected by the pills, since he had skipped lunch with Wilson. Not a good Saturday, all in all.

Rolling his shoulders to ease the strain on his back, House headed for his office to lock up for the night. He was tired; on Monday he had a 3-hour lecture to give the college kids. It was all a pointless waste of time, since they'd still grow up to be mediocre diagnosticians regardless of what he tried to teach them. Sad, really, how useless education was these days.

There was a dim light seeping through the blinds on his office windows, House noticed as he approached. Curious, he let himself in and his eyes fell immediately on something out of place.

Wilson was huddled in House's chair, half-covered by a hideous flowered comforter with only his head and arms protruding. House suspected the comforter, which looked vaguely familiar, had been Julie's before Wilson had taken it for himself. The desk lamp was the only source of illumination in the room, and House's red mug stood filled with cold tea next to his laptop. Wilson was asleep, still wearing office clothes.

House contemplated whether or not to wake Wilson up, considering his fatigued appearance over the past few days, then decided to do it anyway. "Wilson!" he snapped loudly. "Rise and shine! Nap time is over!"

Wilson didn't move.

Furrowing his brows, House flipped the switch by the bookcase, flooding the office with light. He moved around the desk to the chair and shook Wilson gently. Wilson's head lolled bonelessly and his eyelids fluttered, but he didn't wake.

"Come on, Wilson, how long do you think you can fake this?" House looked down at Wilson's prone form and shook his head. "Fine, be that way." He stepped back. Then he noticed the blood dripping down the chair leg, and the small puddle of it underneath his desk. "Wilson!" The initial shock of the discovery made House's breath catch. This was what he had been afraid of. This was what he had thought never would happen—and now, he feared, it had. He let the cane clatter to the ground temporarily and tried to still his shaking hands.

House was usually never one to panic in an emergency like this, assessing it from a medical standpoint first. Usually was the key word there—this time it was harder for him to concentrate on symptoms and far too easy to succumb to the images in his head. What had happened to Wilson? Had he been stabbed, attacked—or had he—no. Wilson would never do something like that intentionally. Would he? There was only one way to find out, and as much as House dreaded it, he was a doctor after all for a reason.

He seized the corner of the comforter and tugged it away from Wilson's body. The fabric of Wilson's blue dress shirt was stained with more blood around where his hands lay. House took hold of Wilson's hands and turned them. He could clearly see three deep, long gashes on the inside of each wrist, and a multitude of smaller bleeding scratches. Gently, House pried open Wilson's right fist to find a monogrammed Swiss Army knife. All of it clicked—the avoidance, the uncomfortable behavior—it had all been leading up to this.

"Dammit, Wilson, you idiot. Why?" Efficient despite his shock, House dragged blood-slick fingers along Wilson's neck and felt for a pulse by his throat. There was only a very weak one. His chest was just barely rising and falling. Wilson was probably barely conscious, if he was conscious at all. House dug his beeper out of his pocket, muttering. He paged Foreman, Cameron and Chase and stuffed the beeper angrily back into his jacket. It wasn't really important what he was angry at—probably Julie, because this was probably her fault—but he knew that he was so furious he would annihilate anyone who stood in his way to the ICU.

Propping himself up more securely on his cane, House hoisted Wilson over his left shoulder with some difficulty. Calling a stretcher and notifying people would take longer than just carrying Wilson would. The suit he was wearing would get ruined, but he didn't care. After adjusting Wilson's position a little, House began maneuvering himself out of the office and down the hallway. His leg screamed with every step under Wilson's added weight, and he could feel Wilson's blood seeping through his clothing. It didn't matter. Time had already passed since this had happened, and now they were running out of time even faster.

House jabbed the elevator call button until his fingers hurt. His heart hammered in his ribcage louder than his breathing. House could feel the effects of adrenaline on his brain, making him irritable and jumpy. Two nurses from Pediatrics joined him in the elevator and gave him looks of surprise. He glowered at them until they retreated into a corner out of his personal space, whispering. They probably couldn't believe that the disabled Dr. House was actually carrying a man on his shoulders.

On the ICU floor, House lowered Wilson on the nearest gurney he could find and braced himself against his cane again as his leg almost gave out. Cameron stepping out of the elevator made him turn away quickly.

"Call Cuddy and let her know what happened, Cameron." He didn't want Cameron hanging around during this and acting like an anxious little girl.

"But—is Dr. Wilson okay? You paged about--"

House gestured irritably at the blood-soaked sheets underneath Wilson. "Does it look like he's okay? You're wasting time!" People were such idiots, House thought. Using the gurney as a support, he began to wheel Wilson towards the nearest room. "Make yourself useful!" Behind him, he heard the obvious sounds of Chase arriving as well and Cameron trying to usher him away. House hoped fervently that Foreman, unlike the rest of the team, had had the good sense not to run to the hospital. That hadn't been the intent of his pages—he'd merely wanted to let the fellows know what had happened. That was their due, after all.

Alas, House's luck wasn't meant to hold. Foreman was waiting for him when he steered Wilson into the room. House opened his mouth to tell Foreman to leave, but Foreman just gave him a no-nonsense look and began the task of hooking Wilson up to the machines. With a sigh, House reached into one of the wall cabinets for bandages and antiseptic and began to clean Wilson's wrists. He hid his relief when the monitors around Wilson began to show positive stats.

"His vitals are normal now. Just sleeping," Foreman reported, also seeming to realize that everything was stable. "You gonna stay until he wakes up? I can hang around if--"

House shook his head and dragged a visitor's chair near the head of Wilson's bed, sitting down wearily. "Go home, Foreman. It's not your problem."

"Fine," Foreman conceded, doubt apparent in his voice.

As his fellow walked out of the room, House briefly considered that he had no reason to stay himself. Wilson wasn't really his responsibility either. If the melodramatic idiot wanted to kill himself then House couldn't change anything. _But it's your job to save lives. His isn't any different, _his conscience cut in. _Besides, what would you do if he'd died? You'd blame yourself, and—_

"Shut up," House snapped at the silent room, banging the cane against the rung of his chair in irritation. "Don't be stupid."


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Blind, Deaf, and Running Away  
Fandom: House, M.D.  
Pairing: Eventual House/Wilson  
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Warnings: Homosexual themes (eventually), cursing, serious issues discussed  
Disclaimer: _House, M.D. and it's characters do not belong to me._

Chapter Four

"House…?" Wilson said groggily, lifting his head off the pillow for barely a second before letting it drop.

"The one and only," House quipped, leaning forward in the uncomfortable visitors' chair. "So you're awake." He didn't betray any signs of happiness on his face even though he was immensely relieved.

Wilson tried to move his arms but grimaced at the shock of pain to his wrists. His eyes fell on the bandages. "Oh, god. I didn't—did I?" He sounded desperate for an answer in the negative.

House sighed. "Don't try to move; you'll only hurt yourself more." He paused and scratched at a speck of dried blood on his sleeve. "I found you cut up and bleeding in my office chair. Great location for a suicide attempt, by the way. I commend you."

"Sorry." Wilson sounded truly guilty.

House frowned yet again. "Wilson," he said quietly, full of concentrated puzzlement. "Why would you do something like that to yourself?"

"What, self injury is so uncommon these days?" Wilson deadpanned, self-loathing evident in his tone. Then he laughed, a weak, hysterical sound. "I don't know House. I really have no idea." He shook his head and closed his eyes.

"Is this because of the Julie thing?" House ventured. He felt like he was entering unfamiliar grounds, this touchy-feely talk. His mind screamed at him to turn back and run, but he pressed on. "Something else happen with her?"

Wilson bit his lip. He opened his mouth to say something. When he finally spoke, it was strained and hesitant. "Don't do this."

"_No_, Wilson. God dammit, no!" House snapped, slamming his fist down on the bedside table. "The one time I decide to actually ask about your feelings, I'm not going to let you just change the subject! I don't care if you don't want to talk about it. We're going to talk about it anyway! I want to _know_ why you tried to kill yourself in my office last night!"

"I can't talk about this, House. Not right now. Not when you put it like that, either," Wilson said tersely.

"Look, this isn't high school! You could have died, you selfish—" House broke off and blew out a frustrated breath. He gripped a fistful of the bedcovers, looking down at the floor. "Jesus, Jimmy, why?"

Shifting slightly, Wilson shrugged. "You've cut yourself before," he pointed out matter-of-factly.

"That's different!" House exploded. The urge to grab Wilson and shake him was overwhelming. "I'm allowed to be that way!"

Wilson bristled. "Oh, and I'm not? You think just because you've got chronic pain you have it worse than anyone else! Get over yourself!" he cried. "There are worse things than an infarct, House, believe it or not! You think you're chosen to carry the burden of the world, or something? You're just as human as everyone else! How can you sit there judging me for wanting to find a way out when you've done it yourself?"

"I can do that because you're supposed to be the strong one," House replied, his voice barely audible over the humming of machinery. "Because people depend on you to fix things. Cancer, broken hearts, all that good stuff. You're an oncologist. You _don't _give up."

"You could use a bit of that philosophy yourself, House," Wilson retorted wryly. "Maybe try worrying about your patients a little more."

"You know perfectly well that it's the diagnosis. I don't give a shit about the people I save."

Wilson tilted his head. "What about me?"

House rose to his feet and limped toward the door, smiling ruefully. "I lugged you here on my own chronically-crippled back and ruined my best jacket to save your sorry ass. What do _you _think?"

With one last look back at the bed, House left a confounded Wilson in the ICU ward and limped toward Cuddy's office, whistling. A few minutes later, Wilson smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Blind, Deaf, and Running Away  
Fandom: House, M.D.  
Pairing: Eventual House/Wilson  
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Warnings: Homosexual themes (eventually), cursing, serious issues discussed  
Disclaimer: _House, M.D. and it's characters do not belong to me._

Chapter Five

House barged into Cuddy's office without knocking, as was his way. "I want you to discharge Wilson into my care."

Cuddy looked up from the business letter she was reading. Already she looked exasperated. "Wilson is a grown man, House. He doesn't need your care," she told him, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. House definitely didn't see it that way.

"He tried to kill himself last night! People don't just do that at his age. He's obviously not okay and needs supervision from someone." House stalked forward, towering over Cuddy's desk and rapping his cane against the ground to punctuate his point. "I don't know _why _that fact is failing to register with you."

"It's not. I did, if you recall, go to med school just like you did, House. I realize that Dr. Wilson needs to be watched," Cuddy conceded. She rose from her chair and fixed House with an intent look. "However, it would make _much _more sense to have him stay at the hospital under the observation of nurses for the next few weeks, instead of letting him go with you. Just why exactly do you think you're the best candidate for this?"

House rolled his eyes and threw out a hand in frustration. "I'm his best friend, Cuddy. I should be the one to—"

"Yes, because suicidal divorcee plus pill-popping, antisocial maniac equals happy recovery, right?" she deadpanned, refolding the letter and putting it down on top of her laptop keyboard. "He may be _your _only friend, but you're definitely not his. What I'm saying is, I care about him just as much as you do. He's my Oncology department head and a damn good doctor—do you really think I'm not thinking in his best interest right now?"

"Exactly. That's why what I'm suggesting makes sense."

"Actually, no. What you're suggesting is just another of your crazy ideas, House. I couldn't be putting Wilson in a worse environment if I tried." Cuddy sighed.

House's eyes flashed. "Okay, let's get one thing straight here. No matter how much of a masochistic bastard I am, I'm _not _stupid. I would never allow Wilson to hurt himself under my roof. I wouldn't encourage him to try offing himself again, even under the influence of _all _my big, bad pills." He shook his Vicodin bottle for effect.

Cuddy shrugged and sat down again. "Fine. I trust you on that part. I think. Regardless, he has his own life to go home to. A wife," she pointed out.

"Not for much longer. Number three is filing for divorce," House informed her, rolling his eyes in disgust at the idea of Wilson's wife. "I doubt it would have been long before Julie kicked him out permanently to live in a motel, anyway. So pick one: motel or me?"

He could tell that this last piece of information had convinced Cuddy. Silently congratulating himself on his negotiating skills, House drummed his fingers against the handle of his cane and waited for the verdict. _It really was an ego booster when you could out-talk a woman with wits _and_ big tits, _he thought to himself.

"All right, but Wilson has to agree to it first," Cuddy finally said, her posture weary. "Hospital protocol says that the patient has the right to approve all medical decisions given that said patient is conscious and coherent—both of which Wilson is. Get him to agree and you can take him home."

House gave her his most charming smile before exiting the office. A plan was already forming in his mind.

There were ducklings to be convinced.


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Blind, Deaf, and Running Away  
Fandom: House, M.D.  
Pairing: Eventual House/Wilson  
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Warnings: Homosexual themes (eventually), cursing, serious issues discussed  
Disclaimer: _House, M.D. and it's characters do not belong to me._

Chapter Six

On his way to his office, House paged Chase and Foreman for a consult. He figured Cameron would be too compassionate for his proposition, so there was no point in inviting her along. Absently, House wondered how he could have hired somebody so damn ethical. Foreman and Chase, however good-hearted they thought they were, still had a daring side. Cameron would simply never change.

_Leaving her out of this won't hurt_, House thought. He saw his two fellows walking in his direction and dove into the nearest supply closet. As they rounded the corner, unaware, he reached out; seizing them by the sleeves, House hauled Chase and Foreman into the closet. Bewildered, they stared at him as if he were crazy.

"Why on earth are we having a consult in here?" Chase asked loudly, brushing dust off his dark dress shirt as House locked the door. There was barely any room between the three of them, hemmed in as they were by sharp corners and cleaning products. A mop handle kept jabbing House painfully in the back, but he ignored it in favor of making his companions miserable. Judging by the way they kept fidgeting, they were uncomfortable indeed.

"Because I've had a crush on both of you since I hired you. In fact, that was mostly the reason. I'm thinking we should all have hot sex together in this closet. Who's for it?" House whispered. He waited for the full effect of his words to sink into the shocked silence. "I'm kidding, you morons. We're in here because it's convenient. Keep your voices down!"

Foreman and Chase let out twin sighs of relief. "That was some creepy shit you just pulled, House," Foreman hissed. "_Never _do that again."

"Agreed," added Chase from somewhere to the right, sounding a bit sick.

House rolled his eyes, even though he knew they couldn't see it in the dark. "Anyway," he continued brightly." Would you be okay with knocking out a co-worker?"

"Knocking out…?" Chase repeated uncertainly at the same time as Foreman spluttered an indignant "What?!"

"Heavily sedating. That sound better?" House muttered placatingly. "It's all semantics, really."

"For what insane purpose would you want to do that?" Foreman questioned in blunt disbelief. "I mean, I know you've got a big hate list, but even for you--"

"It's for a good cause, I promise."

Chase snorted. "Your idea of a good cause drastically differs from ours, House," he pointed out. "In most cases, I'd say whatever you have planned is wrong."

House grimaced. He hated telling the truth unless he absolutely had to. Lying was so much easier and more convenient. "This isn't most cases, Chase. It's important," he explained. "It's _Wilson._"

"So you want to knock out Dr. Wilson," Foreman said slowly, "as he's recovering from a suicide attempt?" His tone of voice made clear that his suspicions about House's sanity—or lack thereof—had been confirmed.

"Wrong! I want to knock out Wilson _because _he's recovering from a suicide attempt," House corrected triumphantly.

Chase shifted his weight to keep his legs from falling asleep. "Um, don't you think that kind of defeats the purpose? That's like…healing a burn victim and then sending him back into a fire two days later. It makes no sense."

"On the contrary, it makes perfect sense." House fumbled in his pockets for the Vicodin bottle. "I have to move Wilson in with me. It's for his own safety, so he doesn't try the metaphorical 'express checkout lane' again anytime soon."

"You could just ask Dr. Wilson if he wants to move in," Chase suggested. "Make things a bit easier."

Foreman laughed with the air of a martyr going to his death. "We all know House never settles for easy."

House popped another pill. "Bingo, Foreman. Easy is boring. Besides, I even have Cuddy's approval to take care of him, and I'm not going to take the risk of him saying no." His voice took on a mischievous lilt. "Remember good old hospital policy? He only actually has to agree if he's conscious. I call all the shots as his attending physician if he suddenly goes comatose!"

"Hold up!" Foreman interjected indignantly. "You said sedated, not comatose!" But House was already unlocking the closet and heading briskly for the elevators.

"Same difference!" he called over his shoulder with a smirk.

Chase and Foreman stood blinking in the sudden contrast between dark and light. They exchanged horrified looks and tore after House, sliding into the elevator with him just in time for the doors to slide shut.

"Where are you going?" Chase cried, watching as House pressed the fifth floor button. "The ICU? You're not actually going to—"

"You know it really doesn't matter if you want to help me or not. I'm going to do it anyway, just like usual," House replied. "And I'm going to make you help me."


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Blind, Deaf, and Running Away  
Fandom: House, M.D.  
Pairing: Eventual House/Wilson  
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Warnings: Homosexual themes (eventually), cursing, serious issues discussed  
Disclaimer: _House, M.D. and it's characters do not belong to me._

Chapter Seven

"I'm not doing this," Foreman stated. He and Chase hovered uncertainly in the doorway of Wilson's room on the ward. "No way."

"Get inside and quit wasting time," House snapped, closing the window blinds with a flick of his wrist. He looked at the two of them as if daring disobedience.

Chase glanced at Foreman, then shrugged and stepped into the room. "Come on," he told Foreman under his breath. "It's easier just to do what he wants."

"Remind me again why I haven't quit yet…" Foreman followed Chase over to the counter, where House was filling a syringe with sodium pentothal.

"Chase," House barked, shoving him back towards the entrance. "Go guard the door. Anyone comes within 50 feet of this room, get them away." He tossed the empty vial into the trash.

Already halfway into the hall, Chase gave a resigned sigh. "What am I supposed to say?"

His boss shrugged. "Tell them they're selling boomerangs at bargain price in the Peds lounge. Do I care? Just don't let anyone in here." House pulled on surgical gloves as soon as Chase was gone. "Hey, Foreman, make sure Wilson's asleep."

"I'm awake, thank you," Wilson's voice drifted weakly from the direction of the bed. They heard him stirring, and Foreman gave House a look as if to say, "Now what?"

House made a face. "Bummer," he muttered without conviction, giving the latex gloves a gleeful snap. A little obstacle like this wouldn't stop him. Foreman rolled his eyes.

Wilson tried to sit up but his arms gave out, so he settled for craning his neck curiously. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm about to knock you out with sedatives." House brandished the syringe of Pentothal and limped toward Wilson's bedside.

"What?" Wilson shrank away. "No, you aren't."

House snagged a stool and rolled himself over to the head of the bed. "Fine, here's option B, then." He took hold of the IV tube that snaked over the sheets and positioned the needle. "Move in with me."

Wilson blinked groggily. "House, what is this? What are you talking about? I've already told you I'm not moving in with you! For the—"

"Great," said House with an evil smile. "We're back to option A. I'm still about to knock you out with sedatives." Applying steady pressure, House emptied the contents of the syringe directly into Wilson's IV drip. The lid of the trash can clanged as House tossed the gloves and syringe. Wilson was already out.

Foreman shoved his hands angrily into his lab coat pockets and stopped pacing. "I can't believe you just did that—no, wait, I can't believe I just let you do that!" he exclaimed, brow furrowed in frustration.

"Right." House nodded as if he didn't believe a word of it. "One day, when _you're _out in the real world doing this to save _your _best friend, come back and see me, Foreman. We're all doctors here. Get used to it." He strode determinedly towards the door. "You and Chase are free to go do…whatever it is you normally do. I'll be busy watching porn flicks in my office."

Of course that wasn't really what House was going to do—as enjoyable as it would be at the moment. Instead, he heaved a put-upon sigh and made his second trip of the day towards Cuddy's office.

Time to get the boss-lady's approval.


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Blind, Deaf, and Running Away  
Fandom: House, M.D.  
Pairing: Eventual House/Wilson  
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
Warnings: Homosexual themes (eventually), cursing, serious issues discussed  
Disclaimer: _House, M.D. and its characters do not belong to me._

Chapter 8

Wilson woke up in unfamiliar surroundings. Or at least, they were unfamiliar until he caught the sound of House's piano in the distance. Slowly, other parts of reality began to fall into place in his dulled brain. He was on House's couch, in House's living room, with House himself a few feet away. This didn't make the least bit of sense, since the last thing he remembered was being in the hospital, not here.

"House!" Wilson heard the piano abruptly stop and the thud of House's cane coming closer. "_Why _am I here?" he asked irritably as soon as House swam into his field of vision.

"You need to be here," House answered matter-of-factly. "For your health, and all that jazz. Cuddy said I was the best option to take care of you, so I took you home AMA."

Wilson tried three times to sit up and then succeeded with a wince. He still couldn't apply too much pressure on his hands. "But I told you I didn't want to move in with you!" he protested.

"Thank the gods for sodium pentothal," House quipped. "You're right—you didn't want to go, so I put you under for a little bit. Just long enough to get the last okay from Cuddy. I helped you, you ingrate." The last bit was said with notable lack of malice and would have been accompanied by a slap on the arm if House were closer.

"No, you _coerced _me," Wilson drew out the words as if he was trying to impart their full meaning on House. "There are so many reasons why this isn't a good idea."

House limped over to the bar to get a glass of scotch and shook out two Vicodin from the pill bottle. "Like I said –it's for your own safety. We can't have you trying anything—"

"I'm not _going_ to try again, House!" Wilson objected hotly. "It was one time. I—" He sighed. "I don't know. I had reasons—logical reasons. I don't want to be treated differently for doing something stupid. I want to go back to work and forget this ever happened and be normal! I'm –I'm not crazy or unstable. You don't have to rearrange my life now!"

"Yeah, stable people regularly slash their wrists with Swiss Army knives and bleed half to death in their best friends' offices. I know, everyone's such a nutcase these days! Wonder how there's anyone _left _with all the tragic midlife-crisis suicides we're seeing," House retorted scathingly. "Come on, Jimmy, who are you kidding? You're not well."

Wilson sighed. "It's not a midlife crisis. I'm under a lot of stress. There are things—things bothering me that I can't talk about. It's not just the divorce. There's the patients, and there's Tr—" He stopped short with a sharp intake of breath, compressing his mouth into a tight line.

"There's what?"

"Truly nothing wrong with me," Wilson said too quickly, clenching his fists and letting out a harsh breath. "I can't believe this is happening. I really can't."

House had a feeling that hadn't been what Wilson what Wilson intended to say. "You still don't trust me with the truth?" He chuckled sardonically. "Figures. Even after I saved your life you still go for self-preservation over honesty."

"Think of it as me learning from the master of the avoidance technique." Wilson gave House a long, searching look. "Why would I tell you the truth? So you can mangle it and analyze it and throw it back in my face as meaningless? Thanks, but no thanks."

House gave up for the time being. If Wilson wasn't going to talk today, he'd make him talk tomorrow. The emotional effort it took for him to hold a reasonable conversation was making his leg hurt more.

"I wouldn't mangle it," he shot over his shoulder and limped off toward his bedroom.


End file.
